


Werewolf Bonding for Beginners

by someonelsesheart



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek is a serial cuddler, Fluff, I feel like I should apologise for this, M/M, Stiles thinks it's kind of hot, and there's just so much irony in that, sorry but not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 23:01:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonelsesheart/pseuds/someonelsesheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek's stupid idea of a camping trip turns out not to be so stupid after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Werewolf Bonding for Beginners

**Author's Note:**

> Short fluff-overload of a fic, and this whole show is ridiculously addicting.

“This was such a bad idea.”

Scott looks amused. Derek scowls. Stiles wonders if that’s some sort of default expression, like his face is completely unable to make any other sort of expression. “Shut up, Stiles,” Derek mutters, or growls, or something. Either way, he manages to look scowly enough that Stiles decides _it’s so not worth the trouble._ This decision may also have something to do with the fact that Stiles is scared Derek might pounce on him or something.

“Werewolves don’t _pounce,_ ” Derek says, looking disgruntled, which, _yeah, so_ default expression.

Erica leans her head on Stiles’ shoulder and smirks. “If you like, I can p –”

Stiles _swears_ he hears Derek growl. Erika just looks even more amused, like this is some sort of victory. Stiles just wraps his arms around himself and tries not to bite his tongue from too much teeth-chattering.

Scott and Allison seem completely unaware of this exchange, possibly because they’re _making out on a log._ Stiles hears Isaac mutter that that’s like _‘ten different types of unhygienic.’_ He can’t help but agree.

“For the love of God,” Erica calls out to them, “can you do that away from the fire? I’m pretty sure that’s like, a fire hazard or something.”

Jackson snorts from his spot curled up next to the fire, before being cut off by his own snore.

“They look pretty dead set on starting a fire of their own,” Stiles comments.

“I hope it burns our eyes out before it gets that far,” Derek grumbles, and Stiles shoots him a surprised smile. So the guy _can_ joke.

Derek rolls his eyes and looks away, covering his face like he’s hiding a smile.

“I’m going to bed,” Stiles announces suddenly, pulling his jacket closer around himself and climbing to his feet. Erica scowls at him and turns so that she’s leaning on Isaac instead, eyelids drooping. She really is beautiful, Stiles’ tired brain notices, and then he turns and looks at Derek, all dark hair and tanned skin and antagonizing smirk, and suddenly he thinks that perhaps Erica pales next to the Alpha.

Stiles stands there for a minute, blinking, before he says, “So where am I sleeping, exactly? Because –” He throws Allison and Scott a disgusted look. “ _\- so_ not staying in a tent with Scott. I’d rather eat my own hand. Or something.”

Derek just smirks and gets to his feet, motioning for Stiles to follow him and walking off into the dark. _Stupid werewolf sight,_ Stiles thinks as he stumbles over a log and ignores Erica’s wolf whistle.

“Hah. Wolf whistle. Hah hah,” he snickers to himself.

He can practically _hear_ the ‘What The Fuck Am I Doing With My Life’ look on Derek’s face when he says, “What?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says, and thinks, _Stupid werewolf hearing._

And then walks into something _hard._

The hard thing turns out to be Derek, which, wow, get your mind out of the gutter, Stiles. Derek is standing in front of one of the tents, and he leans forward, unzipping the tent and slipping inside. _Stupid werewolf grumpiness,_ Stiles thinks and, with nothing else to do, follows him in.

“And we are in here because…”

Derek gives him _The Look._ It’s a look that deserves to be capitalized because it is the sort of look that would make The Incredible freaking Hulk shiver in his boots. Well, if he wore boots. Luckily for them all, Stiles is used to _The Look_ and merely proceeds to sit himself next to where his bag seems to have been thrown down, waiting patiently – or not so patiently, whatever – for an answer.

“We’re sleeping in here,” Derek snaps, default scowling expression on his face. He sits down next to a bag and still manages to look terrifying as he pulls out a sleeping bag and lies it down on the tarp.

Stiles splutters, “You – and me – in here – we’re – sleeping –” At Derek’s unimpressed look, he says, “Great. Great. I mean, I can totally – I. Yeah.” He turns around, feeling a blush creep up his neck _much_ against his own wishes and busies himself with laying down his sleeping bag. He checks Derek’s turned away out the corner of his eye, and quickly changes into a pair of softer sweat pants, falling back onto his sleeping bag and zipping himself inside.

He’s _freezing._

Derek, on the other side of the tent, appears to be playing the old and familiar game of Let’s Ignore Stiles. He changes t-shirts quickly, but not quickly enough, apparently, because Stiles catches a flash of skin and rippling muscle. He bites back a groan, burying his face in his pillow.

“You’re scared,” Derek says, and his voice sounds strange.

Stiles lets out a laugh, voice muffled by the pillow. “Not scared,” he says, and tries not to cry because _life is so unfair._ He is stuck in a tent, freezing his ass off, with a ridiculously good looking werewolf lying next to him who can _hear his heartbeat_ and tell that it’s _just about going the speed of light._ And said ridiculously good looking werewolf thinks he’s _scared._

Really, it would be reasonable for him to cry. He has reasons. It would totally be logical.

“Then what?” Derek asks.

Stiles blurts out, because his mind desperately grasps for an excuse and _apparently this is the best he can think of,_ “’M cold.”

Derek sighs, shifts, and Stiles is _sure_ that the werewolf is going to just turn over and ignore him. But then there’s solid warmth next to him, and Stiles jumps, turning. Derek has pulled his sleeping bag over so it’s next to Stiles’ and he is, _wow, okay,_ pressed up against Stiles in pretty much every way a person can be pressed up against another.

“This was a stupid idea,” Stiles mumbles, turning and finding himself face-to-face with Derek’s shoulder. “Pack bonding my ass. I’m not even pack, I _so_ don’t have to be involved in this, why do I always get dragged into these things.” And yeah, Stiles isn’t even going to _pretend_ that that’s a question.

So of _course_ all Derek picks up from that is, “You don’t think of yourself as pack?”

Stiles shrugs – as much as somebody can shrug with their face planted in somebody else’s shoulder, anyway. “Dunno. Guess not.”

“You are,” Derek says, like that’s that.

Stiles is too tired and too cold to argue, so he just mumbles through chattering teeth, “’Kay.”

And if his heart beats a little quicker when the werewolf pulls him closer, closer into the _warmth,_ and tightens his arms around the human, then Derek doesn’t say anything about it.

*

The next morning when Stiles wakes up, he’s _very, very_ warm and tangled in an armful of werewolf. There’s also somebody saying, “Stiles, wake up,” _really, really_ close to his ear.

He blinks tiredly into the warm chest he has somehow wrapped himself around and murmurs, still half delusional with sleep, “If all my alarms looked and sounded like that, then I’d have _so much fucking_ incentive to wake up in the morning.”

The chest he’s leaning on moves with laughter, and Stiles sits up straight, suddenly remember where he is. Derek just rolls his eyes. “Breakfast time, kid.”

Stiles extricates himself – with difficulty – from Derek and stumbles around the tent, determined to ignore the way his heart is slamming in his chest. “Breakfast, right, um,” he says, and practically dives out of the tent.

Derek’s laughter follows him.

“Your heart is beating pretty fast, Stiles. You sure that's from the cold?” he calls after Stiles, and Stiles can just _hear_ the smirk in his voice.

“Shut up!” Stiles calls back and then proceeds to trip over a branch and fall head-first into the dirt, which just makes Derek laugh harder.

 


End file.
